


Back in the Fold

by sfumatosoup



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bickering, Character Death Fix, Fix-It, M/M, Mutual Attraction, Office, Right?, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Tension, Sass, Secret Villain, Semi-Serious, Sexual Tension, Silva is a lying liar but James is backstabbing backstabber so it all evens out, flirtation, some star trek references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfumatosoup/pseuds/sfumatosoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond is forced to retire and finds he is not content to sit around and watch his hair go gray. Before he knows it, he's swept back into the game and winds up working right alongside many a familiar face from the past-- some, he never imagined he'd see again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mandatory Retirement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gunnouveau](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=gunnouveau).



> Obligatory disclaimer: Sort of inspired by the movie RED. I don't own anything. If anyone or anything resembles anyone or anything in real life it's unintentional. This is a work of fiction. I have no money. Leave me alone. 
> 
> As far as I know MI7 is still defunct and MI6 is not mostly infiltrated by criminals.

Prologue

Every morning James Bond wakes up approximately a minute or so before his alarm. He blinks once or twice before he moves his feet over the side of the bed, registers his surroundings, stands up, stretches, takes a piss, downs a handful of pills with some coffee, works out and then checks the mail. 

As soon as M was lowered into the ground Mallory had forced him out of field work into what the MI6 director liked to call “elective sabbatical”. 

Mandatory retirement looming overhead in 2 years, Bond grit his teeth and took it up the arse with a grain of salt. If he was a good lad maybe he'd get to go play outside again before they put him down for good. 

The boss said, clean up, pass the evals and we'll talk. What he meant was: I don't have the affection for you to write off these outrageous expense reports for destroyed equipment and property damage you regularly incur when you can't even pass a simple piss test. 

Bond's personal opinion was that Mallory lacked imagination. But then again, it wasn't as if he provided much incentive. 

So, he did a few more pushups, attempted a recipe for some sort of godawful kale and wheat grass detox shake, eased up on the scotch, took up knitting (very briefly and very secretly) to replace the occasional lapse into boredom induced chain smoking which resulted in a very unruly sock which now resides in a rubbish heap somewhere South of Havering. 

The knitting needles are now used to prop up some attempts at tomatoes he keeps in little pots under the kitchen window that Misses Michaels promises are as sweet as cherry cordials (which she not so subtly hinted she couldn't possibly indulge in too often because it all goes straight to the hips but are her absolute favorite if anyone would care to get her anything for Christmas) 

All the old ladies around the burrough think he's such a handsome, charming young man and wouldn't he like to think about settling down at some point (maybe with their recently divorced niece who only has two wee little angels and is really rather pretty and not at all gone to fat like that old cow down the street who thinks she's too good to play bridge with them). 

It turned out, everything “New M” promised was utter rot, and he really thinks the puffed-up stiff-collared prick ought to be taken out back and shot. He's spent the better part of his life loyally serving Queen and country and had rather expected to finish his career with a bang, a last big assignment, a flourishing footnote to a solid career followed by a gold watch and a classy little farewell party, nothing too fancy, but a little dignity for coming out the other end of the job relatively unscathed.

Instead, he was relegated to the classroom to mentor the new recruits. 

The hand selected few are drawn from a batch of SRRs' and are well-versed in combat training, tech-savvy enough to make Q branch irrelevant, and they're all cut from the same mold. Good stock. No seasoned collection of vices or debilitating injuries. 

But, not much grit.

He sincerely doubts any of them will last very long but he'll do what he can.

Q refers to the new batch of trainees as 'Red Shirts'. Bond gets the reference. They smile at each other but there is no warmth in it. 

Gallows humour is a natural product of Agency life. 

Regardless, he's incredibly jealous of the 3 fresh young agents that he sets free into the wild. 

Mallory never puts him back in. 

Bond has been tricked into dumping his knowledge into a few potentials with promises that prove emptier than the chamber he's just unloaded into the target now shredded into angry confetti fluttering to the ground.

He gets the goddamn gold watch and resentfully turns in his PPK, recieves a few hearty handshakes, (Moneypenny hugs him and pecks him lightly on his cheek before stepping back to serve the cake, but not before he can catch the shine in her eyes that she doesn't want him to make fun of her for, because caring is not an advantage.)

Before Bond leaves the office he will never again have the security clearance to enter for the last time, he looks around with a tight feeling of nostalgia curling around his heart. He's abruptly torn from his thoughts as Q enters without knocking. 

“Good luck, Bond.”

Q peers at him from beneath the fringe of his overgrown bangs with an intent but otherwise blank expression before extending his hand. 

Bond firmly grips his hand and shakes it. Q holds on for a beat longer than expected before releasing him, never breaking eye contact. 

Something passes across the tech's face and Bond thinks he looks nearly constipated with the effort to convey some sort of message, but Bond is not telepathic, and Q gives up, sighing with exasperation.

“You're sort of hopeless, really,” he snaps before storming out. 

Bond files away the exchange for further examination at a later time. 

He collects his box, tosses his coat over one shoulder, leaves his badge on the desk and walks out of MI6 HQ for the final time. 

He collects a pension. 

MI6 keeps the position but retires the name. 

Someone else gets to be 007 but no one will ever again be James Bond.

In a stroke of whimsy, someone at MI6 makes sure his checks are printed out to a Mister Joseph Bloggs; a banal punchline to an over-told joke. He instantly petitions to get it changed and is patiently informed it will take 6 to 8 weeks to process

(Bureaucrats.) 

'James Bond' is a relic of a bygone time and he's happy to keep it for himself. Not out of sentimentality, but out of convenience. Most of the time he feels pretty glass half full about it being his actual name. 

He's had quite a cache of aliases so sometimes he gets confused about it; if his name was borrowed or if it's always been-- it's like a brand and it's transposed over his memories and there is one other that ghosts about-- slips through the cracks and resurfaces only fleetingly somewhere between the bennies and the fourth flute of champagne. 

He doubts the validity of it though and sometimes feels like he should be a little more concerned than he is that his own name is such a shaky fact.

This always leads him to wonder if Silva ever suffered the same affliction, or if Tiago simply died in China and regenerated into an entirely different man. 

Bond looks at his reflection in the mirror every morning when he shaves but he doesn't always see himself. Some days he does and there's this face he doesn't recognize with gray stubble, hard lines and tired eyes. 

He grasps at threads of fleeting recognition and it catches and he reels it back in and he feels sick afterward with an uncomfortable feeling that sits like a sour rock in his belly. 

He needs work. 

It's not that he's hurting for money, he has his pension and his savings, what little left he has of his inheritance-- from the sale of his ancestral land he purchased a responsibly modest place in Havering. He is surprisingly happy to have neighbors. 

Mrs. Michaels is an odd mix of battle axe and sweetheart and her  
biscuits are sinfully good. Bond jogs a bit extra to compensate. 

1\. 

Currently, it's ten-o-clock and the sun is shining bright. The birds are chirping outside his window and Bond sees Steve across the street starting up the lawn mower and naturally glances self-consciously at his own yard, mentally adding an extra chore to today's to-do list.

Opening his laptop, Bond checks his email hoping for a few new job listings that might be worth looking into. 

Between the regular junk-mail and the promising looking messages which turn out to be adverts asking if he would like to go back to school which he most certainly does not, Bond opens a message offering an interview with a company he almost forgot he applied to several weeks prior. 

Bond dials the number listed and schedules an appointment with the company, closes his laptop, gets changed into grass-stained jeans and goes outside determined to outshine Steve's lawn grooming by adding a few snips to the hedges around the stoop after the grass is properly cut to a length of standard suburban-conformity. 

2.

Bond has worked as a Private Security Consultant at Triple-S (Superior Security Services) now for exactly 4 weeks and still has yet to figure out exactly what it is he does.

The Business is located in a nondescript 27 story building in a densely developed office park. 

For a pencil-pushing number-crunching job, Bond finds himself unusually keen to stay in spite of the banality of the work because his inner spy sense is tingling and he gets the sense that something less than kosher is going on.

Curiosity Killed the Cat, Felix used to say, but James Bond is one of those 9-lives types and still has another 1 or 2 rounds he figures. 

Within the first few days he finds out quickly that A: his coworkers all mostly share the same position title with minor variation and B. Most, if not all of his new colleagues are his age or older and via friendly interrogation over the water cooler discovers their backgrounds are as similarly concise, rehearsed and impersonal as his own. 

It is quite clear that Bond is among a group consisting entirely of retired agents of various high and low level MI5/MI6 branches and that's just on his floor. He's fairly confident if pressed he could identify a good third of the other employees that work on other levels of their building. 

Bond decides to suspend judgment on this coincidence for the time being because the perks of the job are bountiful and he doesn't want to rock the yacht before he can figure out the name of the game and anyway, compliance to the nondisclosure rule seems to be a universally ingrained trait en-mass so the work-a-day throng keeps mum about their shared history (as far as he's observed). 

Similar to the indeterminate quality of his job, the primary function of the office is shrouded in the obscurity of lumbar supporting spinny-chairs, ergonomically designed computer desks and suspiciously expensive tasting coffee. 

Bond has yet to see the improbably high ceiling for their in-office budget. 

The rule seems to be: Do your assigned work and don't try to figure out exactly what it is or what it is for. 

Bond diligently adheres to this rule because he gets the sense he's under a sort of yellow-level probation period and the longer he can remain under the radar the closer he is to getting to the meat of the mystery. 

He takes note of his coworkers. 

Jenkins is his supervisor. Bond can count on 1 hand how many words the man speaks per day. 

Carters occupies the nearest office, and is typically friendly, and also, he suspects, quite mad. His mutterings seem to be oddly coherent considering the paranoid conspiracy theorist quality to their content and he has a tic which forces him to make a spastic wince every time the fax machine does it's unfortunate, over-taxed droning-whistle thing. 

Much to Carters' displeasure, The fax machine makes this sound as new invoices come in multiple times every hour with new instructions for the Triple-S employees; as usual, these instructions are precise and obscure. 

Thomas is the office old-timer, a seasoned veteran with stark white hair and strangely black eyebrows. Bond hears him whistling in the break room all day long and wonders if he's even on the payroll. 

The second week, Ronson (who has just returned from a lovely vacation in Cape Verde at his timeshare) introduces himself to Bond as a Security Analyst. The ex-spy gapes at his old friend with momentary disbelief before he remembers himself and greets him as if it is for the first time. 

This charade lasts only 2 more days before Bond can no longer stand it and marches (walks calmly) into Ronson's office, slamming (politely closing) the door. 

“I thought you were dead.”

“That's funny, I th ought you were too.”

“Well, I'm clearly not.”

“Neither am I, what a coincidence. You don't happen to have brought a spare spoon, have you? I brought yogurt today and you know how impossible it is to eat without one.”

This is how the conversation concludes.

Bond does in fact have a spare spoon and lends it to an appropriately grateful Ronson. 

Ronson is 7 years his junior. He wonders why he did not go back to work for MI6 upon recovery. He doesn't ask. Ronson does not volunteer the information. 

Bond doesn't want to raise any red flags after all. 

He sees the camera in the corner above the vending machine pointed at him in the reflection on the screen of his mobile as he checks the 5-day weather report. 

 

3.

1 month and 1 week later, Bond attempts to start his car and instead of the usual healthy hum hears a sad, unhealthy whirring sound. Annoyed, he calls a taxi to take him to the train station hoping he won't be late for work due to the unexpected inconvenience. 

He doesn't think too deeply about it.

He also fails to see the paint of the lettering on the post truck pulling past his house is so fresh it's melting down the side panel with the soggy fog of the rainy morning. 

A half hour into the start of the day, Bond receives a memo informing him to report to the central office Room 712 on the 7th floor. Jenkins escorts him to the elevator and swipes his badge before typing in his personal access code. 

Bond rides up the elevator alone and stares at his reflection in the silver surface of the doors. He smooths a hand over his tie and auditions a charming smile before vetoing it in favor of a cooler one. 

He winks at the camera in the back left corner of the compartment before exiting. 

A scowling bloke with crossed arms twice his size stands before a door with the number 712 affixed to the front sans nameplate. He taps his mic and gruffly announces Bond's arrival. The door latch automatically clicks open and Bond is ordered to enter by a stern, familiar voice. 

He does so.

“Well,” M barks, “if you will, close the door behind you and take a seat.”

Bond complies dropping into the seat heavily, colorless, silent and barely controlling the trembling in his hands. He folds them tightly in his lap and blanks his expression.

“I imagined this would come as a shock to you.”

“It is a welcome one,” Bond replies automatically. 

Something softens minutely in M's eyes as she examines his face. 

“You look healthier,” she observes before turning her attention back to her desk where she pulls out a file and fans through the pages before reshuffling them and laying them in a neat stack in front of her. 

“I've taken up knitting,” Bond explains with an insouciant shrug.

M eyes him sharply, her thin lips pulling up into a smirk and he relaxes, finding it easy to fall right back into their familiar banter. 

“Is that where that extra half stone came from.”

Bond outright laughs at the jab to his ego before shaking his head in amazement at his old mentor. 

“Well you certainly are a sight for sore eyes.” he remarks, “Obviously there's something in the water around here, seems like everyone's popping back out of the grave lately.” 

M's posture is impeccable to compensate for her small stature, and when she raises her chin and stares shrewdly down at him through narrowed eyes she emotes an air of matronly authority that is both impressive and diminishing. 

“You haven't figured it out yet then,” she states dryly. 

Bond swallows back his wounded pride and smiles placidly. 

M emits the smallest of disapproving sighs and turns the stack of papers around so that they are facing the ex-spy. The coversheet is labeled: Top Secret.

The second page welcomes him to Superior Security Services corp, a division of Section Seven. 

Bond furrows his brow in confusion and M mercifully takes pity on him.

“Yes, James, we are a legitimate operation. Welcome to MI7.”

 

4.

His job is actually still rather vague, but now this makes sense. Bond is informed that Triple-S is acting as a front for their completely 'legitimate' outfit.

Their section is so deeply embedded that all the other official sections think MI7 has been defunct since the Cold War which is how MI7 likes to keep it. 

Their operation consists of ex-operatives hand selected for 1 purpose: to eliminate and replace MI6.

“This is technically treason.”

M purses her lips and looks nonplussed. 

“If you are of the notion that I simply hung up 40 plus years of loyal service to Queen and Country on a whim of sudden unpatriotic fervour, you are disastrously mistaken. I've been the co-founder of this Agency for over 2 decades.”

“You've been plotting domestic terrorism for over 20 years.” Bond clarifies. 

M is not impressed. 

“If by 'plotting' you mean 'actively pursuing' with varying degrees of success then yes, you are essentially grasping the concept. Where you are missing the point, is that we are not the criminals.”

Bond snorts a careless laugh and leans back in his seat, “My apologies, of course you're referring to the villainy of our dear corrupt Section 6.”

M stands up and scowls down at him imperiously, “If you're going to speak to me with that tone of insolence I will have you escorted to a holding cell until you've remembered your manners.”

“Oh, that sounds marvelous, will there be any gin?”

5.

It turns out James Bond is served no alcoholic beverages. 

Bond thinks this oversight ought to be remedied and reminds himself to send a memo to human resources suggesting they install a wet bar for the innocent employees unjustly imprisoned in their secret Guantanamo-chic basement dungeon. 

M frowns at him from the other side of the glass and Bond stares back with challenging stoicism. 

“I imagine corporate is aware of your little play room?”

“I am corporate,” M informs crisply, “I am your superior and you were insubordinate.”

“I must have missed the fine print where it specified I'd work a front for an illegal operation run by a dead megalomaniac.”

“The legitmacy of MI7 is a matter of perspective” M concedes, “But I have no desire for power.”

Bond raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

“I still feel inclined to point out that all this violates the regulatory full-disclosure statute regarding corporate-employee relations.”

“That's a trivial technicality.”

“I prefer to call it entrapment,” Bond raps his knuckles demonstratively against the glass between them. “Figuratively and literally.” 

“I only had you put here to keep you from doing something you might regret without giving me ample opportunity to explain your situation.” 

“Well, I do fully confess to a long and satisfying moment envisioning which strangulation method we'd mutually find most efficient.” 

M is about to parry with a sharp rejoinder but has decided instead that a tactical retreat might yield a more advantageous outcome. Bond easily reads the tell and steels himself. 

“Listen closely because I will only say this once,” M states, “I am sorry about the loss of your car as well as your family home. I will monetarily compensate you for both if that will satisfy you.” 

“It's not about the money.” 

M impatiently huffs shedding the failed show of contrition. 

“It was some minor, necessary deception. For everyone's benefit.”

“You mean overwhelmingly protracted and elaborate lying for your own convenience,” Bond corrects. 

M tisks. “If that's the point you remain stubbornly fixed upon, then let me assure you, you are hardly alone. The end justifies the means.”

“Why?”

“Because after that stint where you played dead, MI6 had you monitored as a potential security threat and I could not risk prematurely inducting you into our operation. Our secrecy is imperative and you were too high risk,” M explains. “On that note, I'm actually quite amazed Mallory suspended the hit for as long as he has. Small mercy I suppose for good service. Congratulations, by the way, on your retirement, you're the only double-oh who has achieved such a feat.”

Bond detects a note of irony in M's voice. 

“I just nearly didn't, as you well know,” He points out.

M's withering stare could reduce a mountain to rubble. 

“And,” Bond adds, his sense of assurance beginning to waver, “I would know if I'd been tagged.” 

Without further explanation, M holds up her mobile so he can see the the local news on the screen. He watches with a sinking feeling as footage reveals a fiery inferno raging in a painfully familiar suburban neighborhood. 

Bond only recognizes his poor little home by the clean row of petunias encircling his lonely lamp post among the team of fire fighters attempting to douse the flames. A news anchor interviews an animated Misses Michaels in her robe and slippers, frizzy white hair wrapped in curlers. 

The camera pans back to the fire ravaging Bond's hedges before turning back to interview Steve from across the street who has a peculiar look of satisfaction as he informs the newscaster that he'd known Bond well and he'd often come seeking landscaping advice and how very sad it is that he is so obviously dead.

Bond squints at the screen with deep confusion which is cleared up a moment later when they report that 3 fire fighters have already cleared the main level and discovered his nearly unrecognizable, charred remains. 

“Mallory won't be satisfied until the dental impressions show a positive ID,” Bond offers emotionlessly. He feels something tight clench within his chest as he thinks about the tomatoes in their little pots that had just begun to ripen. 

“We have people for that.”

Bond waits for M to continue. 

“I knew it was just a matter of time, so I directed our agents housed over at MI6 to draw out your would-be assassins with a tip off that you had called in sick and then remotely dismantled the motherboard on your vehicle. We assumed it would be more convincing that you remained if your car was there. It is all unfortunate collateral damage, but consider it a small sacrifice.”

Bond can't help but feel sorry for himself anyway.


	2. The Working Dead

1.

For the following two months, Bond ghosts around limbo, traveling light. 

He trains intensely. He doesn't knit. 

But he does drink the horrendous shakes. 

At last, Natalya, who works in MI7's Q branch has eradicated all residual trace of James Bond, ensuring his official demise is cemented into MI6' database. 

She eulogizes him succinctly but kindly before handing him a memo and pecking him lightly on the lips. 

James watches her glide out of his office and puts his meager belongings into a box ready to vacate and head to the Morgue on the 28th floor. 

The 28th floor has no offices because everyone working in this department is dead and the 28th floor doesn't exist. 

The helipad is located on the roof above the 27th floor. This is where MI7 field agents are transported for their various missions.

Someone has decided to code him '0007'. 

Someone thinks they have a sense of humour. Bond idly wonders if the same person who fixed him up with the original name for his pension checks has followed him to MI7 just to take the piss. 

Bond's new assignments consist of: removing, recovering, recruiting and relocating. He details security in newly established installations. 

Bond is so far underground he mostly avoids the milieu of ringing bullets and deafening explosions. He is so far underground he sometimes forgets there is a surface to come back up to. Section 7's internal coupe of MI6 (“We prefer to refer to it as a /restorative initiative/,” M's voice corrects inside his head) continues to dredge up undeniable proof of appalling corruption, flagrant misappropriation of funds, illegal practices and ties to the vast, sprawling web of international crime. 

In under 21 days, Bond takes out 2 sets of assassination teams, a terrorist cell outside of Istanbul with links to a covert MI6 op in Bermuda, recruited 1 of his more promising young red shirts and put in an order for some new Italian driving gloves because blood stains don't come out of treated leather very well.

On a Monday Bond returns to the home office for a debriefing with M and is not at all surprised to see Wai Lin stroll out of her office.

He doesn't bother to ask if she'll stick around for supper before going back to Shanghai. 

Bond has long since stopped being surprised when confronted with the rolling stream of faces from his past and now embraces it with a sort of removed sense of amusement. 

There are a few faces he knows he will never see again, for better or worse.

He doesn't think about those. 

“Triple-oh-Seven,” M acknowledges. 

“M,” Bond mirrors. 

“Please, have a seat.”

Bond sits.

“Due to some unforeseen circumstances, I will be away for the next 6 weeks. During this time, you will report to the Deputy Director. Since your current assignment is domestic the two of you will be working closely.”

0007 awaits patiently M's clarification. 

She peers at him with a prescient scrutiny but Bond is well trained and resists shifting uncomfortably beneath her gaze.

“It won't be a problem,” he affirms. 

“One can hope,” M says cryptically, abruptly ending any further chance for interrogation with a curt wave of dismissal. 

Bond leaves her office with an uneasy feeling churning in his gut.

He pops two antacids and heads out for his 1400. 

2.

On Thursday Bond travels up the elevator to floor 26 and is greeted by a sharp “good morning” in what would otherwise be a dulcet, velvety voice. 

Severine gives the overcompensatingly nonchalant MI7 agent a perfunctory nod and asks him to take a seat.

Bond keeps an eye on the attractive brunette as he lowers himself into a plush leather chair beside a large blue tank with an octopus lolly-gagging about some colorful coral. 

“So,” he attempts, “you're a secretary.”

Severine peers across at him with an offended frown.

“I'm an executive assistant.”

“Not a uh...” Bond coughs, “Never mind.”

Amused by the less-than-swift recovery, the executive assistant smirks at him before lowering her gaze back to her computer. 

Bond retrospectively winces a little, recalling the 'waste of scotch' comment. 

“He's ready for you,” Severine announces. 

A tense feeling rolls through the agent because he's been running away from the same ghost since Skyfall and if Bond's completely honest with himself, he's been anticipating this encounter since M's resurrection. 

After Bond steps into the office, the executive assistant shuts the door behind him.

There is no surprise, but, as if turned to stone, he is frozen. 

“Breathe,” Silva directs. 

The man on the other side of the desk removes a pair of reading glasses and sets them down upon his keyboard. In one fluid motion he has risen from his desk and is smoothing the front of his crisp black blazer as he gazes at Bond with an undisguised look of genuine delight.

He moves to come around toward the agent and Bond reflexively steps a half-step back. The director's expression is concerned and kind and for the life of him, Bond cannot fathom why. 

“As far as reunions go, this seems rather anticlimactic.”

Bond's eyes snap to Silva's. 

“I mean, I know you're the brooding silent type, but this? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I've seen a few recently.” 

Silva steps into Bond's space and gauges the agent's coloring complexion with interest. 

Bond tries not to notice how good the other man smells. 

“My dear James, that's why I had no idea you would be so affected,” Silva exclaims laughing softly, reaching out to stay the agent with a gentle touch to his elbow.

Bond doesn't quite jerk away, but he does visibly tense, clearly unsettled. Silva smiles tightly and turns from him. He walks over to his cabinet and pulls out a bottle of brandy and two glasses. 

When he turns back around, Bond has collected himself and is staring at him curiously. 

Silva reads something in his calmed expression that apparently pleases him because his smile softens. 

“I am not sure if you would believe me, but I truly am glad to see you.”

Bond's laugh is a quiet breath that escapes him unintentionally. 

“You think that's funny?”

“A little,” the agent replies honestly.

“Let bygones be bygones is what I say.” 

Silva approaches slowly, helplessly pleased and unable to resist grinning at the man like a loon as he hands him one of the snifters. 

Bond sucks in a breath when Silva's fingers graze lightly over the tops of his own as he takes the drink. 

“You destroyed my car.”

Silva almost chokes at the sudden accusation. 

“You destroyed my helicopter,” he counters. 

“I almost drowned.”

Silva rolls his eyes heavenward. “You're the clever one who shot up the ice.”

“You destroyed my house.”

“You stabbed me in the back, I think we're even.” 

Bond stares at him disbelieving. “You're alive.”

Silva grins widely, “Seems so.”

“The bowie knife was real.”

“Yes, I can personally attest to the veracity of that,” Silva winces theatrically, “hurt like a bitch. It wasn't in the script, but I don't blame you. M was very determined to keep you in the dark.” 

Bond scowls, “I'm still working through that.”

Silva watches the agent stare with a sort of angry longing at the drink in his hand before setting it down untouched upon the desk. He refrains from commenting. 

“You know,” Silva muses, “being on your bad side was really stressful. You make one hell of a formidable foe.” 

“You were a decent chase.”

Silva leans back against the desk and smiles as Bond unselfconsciously looks at him. 

“You've changed your hair back.”

“Do you like it?”

Bond shrugs. “It's certainly less distracting.”

Silva chuckles combing a finger through his devilishly stylish short black hair. 

“I wouldn't want to distract you.”

A grin slips across the agent's face for a fleeting second as Bond strolls past the deputy director to pour himself a glass of water. He watches Silva observe him in the reflection off the glass cabinet. Their eyes meet, and Bond can see something in the other man's expression has shifted.

“You've met Miss Simonova.” 

Bond turns around to find Silva regarding him with a curious, but guarded expression. The question seems out of left field. 

“I have,” he confirms, “She services me.”

Silva raises an eyebrow and Bond rues his poor choice of wording. 

“As quartermaster, yes, obviously. I tasked her to you. She's my protege.”

“Q works with you too, doesn't he?” Bond asks, suddenly suspicious. 

“No,” Silva corrects , “I'm his handler.”

Bond's soft snort of amusement is less contained than he intends it to be.

The deputy director moves back around his desk, takes a seat and waves a hand, gesturing for the agent to do likewise. 

“You knew Simonova prior to your afterlife in the Morgue, yes? And I don't mean in the biblical sense, you dirty boy,” Silva adds with a wink. 

Bond smooths a hand over the wrinkle on his cuff. “You already know the answer to that. The Janus affair is the worst kept secret in MI6.” 

The agent pauses his expression pinched. “Oh for godsake, don't tell me now Trevelyan isn't dead.”

“No, this has nothing to do with poor, disaffected late-006. I am attempting to ascertain whether or not I need to go over our fraternization policies with you.”

Bond scowls. 

“You've been spying on me.”

“I'm a spy, that's what we do,” Silva defends with a shrug. 

“She kissed me. It was friendly. She's an old friend.”

“Nothing else?”

The agent sighs with exasperation, arms folded defensively across his chest.

“Have you asked her?”

“I'll take your word for it, James, but you do have a sort of... reputation, you know,” Silva winks.

Bond shrugs, “I do what I can for the greater good.”

Silva's mirthful laugh echoes loudly through the room and Severine taps lightly on the door before peaking her head in.

“Yes, love?”

“I moved your 19-hundred to noon tomorrow.” 

“You are a sweetheart.”

“I'll remind you of that next review period,” the executive assistant shoots back before closing the door again. 

“Tell me, James.” Silva asks with a serious, earnest expression, leaning forward with his hand clasped upon his desk, “how do you feel about Sicilian?”

Bond stares at the deputy director with utter bewilderment.

“Or does your heart lie somewhere in Tuscany?” 

“What's this about the fraternization policy?” 

Silva brushes aside the point impatiently, “Are you hungry? Because I'm about ravenous.” 

“So what, we're just off to Italy now for a bite?” 

Silva rolls his eyes and huffs a long-suffering sigh. 

“Meu deus, James, you over-indulged jet-setting playboy! If you insist on being whisked away for a romantic candle-lit supper under the moonlight in Catania then fine, but honestly, this is a weeknight, I wasn't planning to go much further than Southwark.” 

3.

Turns out, there is no fraternization policy. The frankly liberal company rules are a bit suspect, and Bond largely assumes Silva is responsible for this oversight. 

At the moment, the agent is so enamoured with the velvety perfection of his vodka cream sauce, he forgets why this matter is even an issue. 

Silva looks lustfully at a robust merlot being thoroughly enjoyed by a woman seated at the table behind his handsome dining companion as he sips his San Pellegrino and lime. If his dining companion were less handsome he would be less inclined to abstain in respectful solidarity. 

“Is there an end date?” 

Silva redirects his attention back to said dining companion. 

“To...?”

“To merging,” Bond clarifies carefully positioning his fork on the edge of the empty pasta bowl. 

Silva pushes aside his plate and leans forward, “It's less a merging and more of an immersion. We're already assuming most of the international fieldwork. It's only a matter of time before it's really just about semantics and legal recognition.”

“And convincing the ISC?” Bond whispers quietly across the table, vigilant of the presence of his fellow patrons. 

Silva leans back in his chair and laughs heartily, “Why convince when you can replace? But this is a conversation better saved for somewhere more... private, yes?”

Bond agrees but doesn't fully get the insinuation until they arrive at Silva's condo, a warmly decorated, sprawling penthouse suite. Silva removes his jacket and whips his tie off before unbuttoning his collar and Bond isn't at all staring at the newly exposed length of tawny, sun-browned throat (and really, was he on business or at the bloody beach for the past few months) because he is far too busy admiring the Cezanne just behind his companion, and oh christ, it's definitely real. 

Silva excuses himself to the kitchen to put the kettle on and Bond is drawn to the recessed, step-floored living room and settles down into a cozy sofa by an enclosed floor-to-ceiling glass compartment that is instantly blazing with a roaring fire. Bond, slightly alarmed, curiously looks around for the source of activation before Silva walks into the room bearing two delicate cups balanced upon matching dainty little saucers.

“Proximity sensors,” Silva explains handing him his tea, “I assume you don't take sugar or cream.”

Bond blows away the steam before taking a sip. “Not typically.”

Silva comes around the other side of the sofa and sits beside him, though respectful of personal boundaries in a way Bond hadn't anticipated.

He suddenly finds he's comfortable in a way he's not entirely familiar with, and he's unsure if it has to do more with the warm atmosphere and clean lines of flawless interior design or the radiating aura of calm his companion seems to effortlessly emote.

“Jivamukti,” Silva responds as if reading his mind. 

Bond blinks. “Beg pardon?”

“Meditation yoga.”

“Hobby?”

Silva takes a minute too long to respond, and Bond looks up from his tea to find the man staring at him with a contemplative, disarming stillness.

“Centering technique.” Pain Management, is what Bond hears.

“It's also great for sex,” Silva asserts with a wide grin before standing up from his seat. The agent does not watch the stretch of his companion's shirt over his broad shoulders as he leans over to collect the the antique china.

Nor does he look at his bum. 

Bond is momentarily alone, and finds himself stealing a glance at his reflection in the fireplace. He smooths a hand down the creases of his shirt and plucks an errant fuzz from his sleeve before Silva reenters. 

“So how are you enjoying the afterlife?”

Bond thinks on this as Silva plops down once more beside him. 

“It has it's perks,” Bond muses carefully considering their new seating arrangement. 

Silva is nearer than before but still leaves enough distance they could safely pretend he's not casually angling for intimacy. However, the gap could easily be closed and Bond is hyperaware of this fact. 

“I think the benefits package leaves some room for negotiation.”

Silva looks aghast. 

“I wrote that up for you myself, you ingrate! What more could you possibly want?”

Bond doesn't hesitate to reply. 

“Custom Aston Martin V12 Vantage in Quantum Silver, fully equipped.”

“At least you have style, baby,” Silva laughs stretching an arm up over the back of the sofa. 

“How do you plan on replacing an entire committee?” 

Silva shrugs, “We've already assembled a selection of able candidates from parliament that will step in when the current assembly electively resigns.”

“Electively,” Bond muses, “That sounds like a codeword for blackmail.”

Silva nods, “You must understand, Triple-oh-Seven, that we do so strive here at Section-Seven to always emulate the three ideals consistent with a functional SIS: Bribery, bullshit and blackmail, and if the first two fail, the last will earn you your paycheck.”

“I would never stoop to such dishonorable methods,” Bond deadpans. 

He's too relaxed to prevent the spread of a wide and toothy grin and is rewarded with Silva dropping his face into his hands with a tired groan. 

“I knew I should've left you to rot with the fossils on the 3rd floor.”

“So,” Bond prompts, lazily sagging into the armrest, “What's the job?”

“An exchange.”

“A little under my pay grade, but I'll see what I can do,” Bond jokes. 

“If the V12 isn't enough incentive, surely my company for the duration of the op will be, wouldn't you say?” 

The agent barely bothers with a creative response surrendering instead to the impulse to settle back into the enveloping warmth of the plush sofa cushion with a deep yawn. 

He thinks he momentarily feels the gentlest brush of finger tips stroke just once, briefly across the back of his neck and shivers lightly. 

“I have a guestroom,” Silva informs, “you don't mind staying the night.” 

Bond reflects that this is more of a statement than a question and find that he's honestly too knackered to do anything but crawl into the nearest bed at this point.

Silva removes a blanket folded beside him and hands it to the agent. 

“Family heirloom, hand-woven by my grandmother. It's very warm.”

Bond spreads his hand out over the faded patterned weave admiring it's durable weight and the heat still lingering from where his companion had leaned against it. 

“You're lying,” Bond says softly, fondly. 

“You're right,” Silva agrees, giving into the urge to card his fingers through the short blonde hair, “I ordered it from a catalogue.”

Pliantly, Bond lets Silva's fingers slip beneath his shirt collar to knead the tight muscles at the base of his neck, head rolling forward.

“I miss this,” the agent admits loosely. 

Silva hums his agreement. 

“I miss your fingers... your lips,” Bond mumbles honestly, “the way you always smell so good.”

“Thank you, I get the scent custom.”

“You always get everything custom.”

“We all have our weaknesses.”

“Is that your only weakness?” 

“You know it's not.” 

“I miss your cock,” Bond states matter-of-fact. Silva chuckles lightly and kisses the agent's temple as he melts against him. 

“God,” Bond groans, “what did you drug me with, T?” 

“A little klonopin,”

(A little?) 

“Wh-” he struggles to ask, but the question is barely formed and his tongue is a limp dead thing in his mouth.

“Hush, my James, meu querido, hush,” Silva whispers against the shell of his ear, “You need to relax.”

Bond fights for consciousness, but then Tiago tells him to go to sleep, and helplessly, he obeys.


	3. The Director's Cut

1.

Bond blinks several times to clear the blur, squinting against the light. 

He is in a chair. His hands are cuffed behind a chair. His feet are not, but he still feels rather wobbly so this doesn't appear to be an asset as of yet. 

There's a few smallish private planes, the ground is concrete, the shelter is large, cavernous and metal. There are windows spanning all along the upper wall near the ceiling. 

There is Silva of course, sitting on one of those metal folding chairs with his hands neatly folded in his lap. He is watching the agent with a mild expression of expectation. 

“I think I'm experiencing deja-vu,” Bond states dryly. 

“I'm nostalgic. What can I say, apparently you are too,” Silva retorts with a hint of teasing in his tone. He approaches Bond calmly and stands before him. It should be intimidating, but his eyes seems to glint with good humour. “It's good to be remembered so fondly.” 

Bond assumes he's referencing his drugged confessions of last night and vaguely recalls the content with some mild embarrassment. 

“How do you feel?”

Bond blearily scans his surroundings and winces at the blinding beams of sunlight pouring in from the windows above. 

His mouth feels parched. 

"Bloody thirsty."

Silva is distressingly bottle blonde again and is clad in fashionable garishness. He bends down at the waist and helpfully holds a cup with a straw to bond's lips. The captive agent gratefully sucks down the liquid and takes advantage of the fact that he can easily see down Silva's paisley-patterned silk shirt. (He's wired.) 

Relief eases the twisting disappointment in his chest and Bond takes a minute to just breathe. 

“Feeling well rested?”

“How long was I out?”

“Longer than I'd anticipated,” Silva informs with a a distracted and somewhat annoyed edge to his tone. He leaves it at that. 

One of the hydraulic doors squeal open and Silva's henchman usher in a parade of 3 vehicles into the airlock; a familiar black Bentley guarded on both ends with H2s'. 

Bond watches as Mallory steps out of the car and is instantly flanked by 2 beefy CPOs. He looks smart and wears a razor sharp expression as he scans the room; casing the situation. 

Silva glances back at Bond briefly and winks before striding over to greet his guest with a toothy grin and an ebullient lift to his step. 

“Welcome, Chief Director, it's a privilege to finally meet you in person.”

Mallory shakes the blonde's proffered hand before turning his gaze to the tied-up agent. 

Bond steels his expression. 

“Not surprised to see me?”

He chuckles at bonds tight-lipped lack of response before looking back over to Silva, “Not too much trouble I hope?”

“None at all, though we were just catching up on old times and I have to admit, I'm sore to part.”

“We're both aware it's worth your while.”

“I don't suppose I'll get him back when you're done?”

“We prefer to ensure his elimination is permanent.”

“You don't trust me?” Silva pouts, clapping a hand over his heart with trademark theatricality, “I'm hurt. I'm almost tempted to force a renegotiation. I have at least 3 contacts from SPECTRE alone that I'm sure would love to make a bid.'

Mallory narrows his eyes. “That would be unwise.”

Silva laughs jovially. “Now, now, you know I'm more than happy with the terms in our contract.”

Mallory looks momentarily green around the gills, but here too, there's a hint of something rehearsed. 

“About that.”

“Hm?”

'Our Yemeni outfit was compromised, the satellite had to be rerouted.”

Silva looks interested, but Bond has always been able to read him fairly well and can tell he's suffering in his effort to remain anything less than ecstatic. “Compromised?”

“Supplanted.” Mallory replies stiffly. 

The blonde shrugs. “oh well, how do they say... even the best laid plans, yes?”

Mallory glances at Bond then back at Silva. “We should have the issue sorted in short order.” 

If Bond was anything less than the seasoned professional he was he'd think himself well and truly fucked, but the Chief-Director's tie pin camera is so bloody obvious he has to resist rolling his eyes. 

Bond plays along, “I hope you've rented a better interrogator than yourself for the occasion.” 

Mallory side-eyes him with a streak of irritation the agent suspects is not entirely feigned. 

“One benefit to having spent 3 months as a POW of the IRA, a man finds he learns a trick or two.” 

Mallory turns his attention to one of his CPOs, wordlessly directing them to fetch his newest acquisition and Bond glances over at Silva, mustering an expression he hopes will convey a promise for violent retribution if he doesn't intercede, because honestly he's starting to get really hungry and he desperately needs to brush his teeth and scrub off the sticky congealed streaks of stage-blood from his face. 

The blonde looks at him apologetically and silently mouths 'soon.'

Bond happily allows himself to be bound, gagged and dragged by Mallory's two burly CPO's. One of them sits with him in the backseat of Mallory's Bentley, the other heads off to rejoin his crew in the lead H2. 

Silva's smiles tragically and waves farewell. “Despedida, Mister Bond!”

“Head out the hangar, west toward the fort,” Mallory instructs via mobile. Bond's stomach rumbles loudly. He hopes their performance was convincing but he also is mostly interested in heading out for food. 

The H2s' rev into drive and the 1 follows out the other. The hydraulic door closes with the Bentley still parked inside the airlock. 

“That's a wrap!” Someone declares loudly from the rafters, 

2.

“I'm just saying it was completely unnecessary,” Bond states biting into his sandwich with the relish of a man half-starved. “I'll be pouring my own drinks from here on.”

“You're taking this very personally,” Silva accuses slicking back his hair with a frustrated little frown. He purses his lips at Mallory, “He's taking this personally, I told you.”

“He takes everything personally,” Mallory adds unnecessarily in Bond's opinion.  
“He is sitting right here,” Bond points out, “Has anyone ever told you you're a dick?” 

The Chief-Director looks at him with utter exasperation. “I didn't put you back in the field for your own damn good.” 

“Well, as I see it, retirement nearly killed me so I'd appreciate if you didn't try to do me any favours in the future.”

Mallory pulls a weary hand down his face but doesn't dispute this claim nor argue in favour of doing the ex-double-oh any more favours in the future. In his opinion, he's done the ungrateful arse enough of those already. Cleaning up after Bond had been a full-time job in and of itself.

“So, I'm going to assume the point of all this was to smoke out the mole,” Bond inquires scraping off the excess of mayonnaise from the underside of his roll.

“Saltfoot has the eye of a hawk and can spot a lie faster than you can say 'game over'; Q trusts her implicitly. Whatever they saw in there, they bought,” Silva explains scooting out of the booth to allow the production manager who had risen to use the lav the opportunity to shuffle back over to his plate of cooling potatoes. 

“Still, you could've let me in on the plan,” Bond insists glaring spitefully at his traitorous allies across the table, “You are aware I've been a professional liar for Queen and Country going on nearly 20 years.” 

"That's what I said," Silva defends, "But artists are peculiarly particular creatures." 

Godrey carefully avoids making eye contact with him and Bond can tell he's nervously twisting his napkin in his lap beneath the table. 

“I'm just on c-contract,” he stammers before practically falling out of the booth in his hurry to extricate himself. 

“Going out for a smoke,” he explains. The three men watch him flee. Silva smirks.

"I think you hurt his feelings."

The server comes over to refill their coffees and Mallory hurriedly puts a hand over the top of his cup. 

“This is tea, actually,” he explains apologetically.

The server goes to assist other guests and no one speaks for a minute. 

"I feel a little betrayed," Bond complains breaking the silence. 

“It's important to recognize your feelings,” Silva remarks laconically.

"Oh no," Mallory interjects, "I refuse to be witness to your lovers quarrel."

Bond reflects that the chief director is more perceptive than he gives him credit for. 

Silva has the good sense to nip it in the bud, "I'll make it up to you, baby."

"I'm counting on it," Bond retorts. Their eyes meet meaningfully and hold for far longer than Mallory finds tolerable. The chief director pointedly clears his throat. 

"We caught our man, if you're interested," Mallory offers. 

Bond frowns. "Q.”

“Q indeed,” Silva sighs shaking his head with disappointment, “someone at Section 6 has had a scent on you since day 1 and I snagged his tail a few days ago. He never quite got the hang of projecting which CCTV's to duck away from-- considering his profession one would think he'd employ a little more common sense.”

“If we hadn't smoked him out, he would have upset the entire replacement of the committee. That would've set us back years,” the Chief Director adds. 

Bond yawns which spurs an echo of yawns all around. Silva's arm, propped on the back of the booth behind the agent curls around his shoulders comfortingly. 

Bond shrugs it off and Silva looks at him with a wounded pout. Mallory grouses about ex-agents needing to get rooms to themselves and Bond pointedly reminds both men how they are responsible for his current lack of permanent residence and therefore lack of room. Silva raises an eyebrow and points out that he does in fact have a room and would be more than willing to share it in reparation. 

Triple-oh-Seven rolls his eyes but does not decline the offer. 

Mallory's expression is pinched and distinctively discomfited because now he's stuck with a very much unwanted mental image. 

Silva looks like Christmas has come early and practically shoves Bond out of the booth. 

4.

“This is one hell of a company car,” Bond concedes running his hand admiringly over the rim of the glistening carbon fiber sidestrakes, “it almost makes up for you being a filthy rotten liar.” 

“I've been naughty,” Silva agrees, grinning playfully, “you should spank me.” 

Bond glares at the blonde with a nonplussed frown and takes the keys from Silva's outstretched hand. 

“You're lucky I'm feeling generous.” 

5.

Falling into such easy domesticity in under an hour of preparing supper together, they move as if choreographed; Silva stirring the pot, Bond flipping the mushrooms, knowing exactly how to move around each other but it's still early days and neither wants to spoil the comfort they've rediscovered by looking at it too carefully. 

“Was anything real?” Bond asks out of the blue when they've settled by the fire after supper. 

Silva blinks at him curiously for a moment, but patiently waits for him to clarify. 

“The bomb at HQ, all the casualties in Scotland?”

“Everything was a decoy. The 'deaths' were new recruits. We were building an army. Obviously we were saving the best soldier for last.” 

Bond isn't satisfied so Silva prompts him, “You're wondering about M and Hong Kong as well I imagine?” 

“You lied to me for 20 years, I thought you were dead, and then you show up again and we're not on the same side. Even though we are. But I didn't know that and I almost killed you because you couldn't trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

Bond bears some resentment, Silva doesn't blame him. 

He gives the agent a biscuit which fractionally fixes some of the hard feelings. Sweets are helpful like that. 

“Most of it was for show, for you, for Mallory, for the committee... for all those loyal to MI6. I had been exposed and M was being forced into retirement, we had to extricate ourselves. Godfrey's been a blessing, but he's particular that certain key players act their role with genuine realism. He's a perfectionist.”

Silva uncrosses his legs and his knee brushes against Bond's. 

“Immediately before Hong Kong,” Silva continues, resuming his explanation, “M and I had uncovered deeply unsettling evidence against half of the board as well as multiple active agents. The corruption was like a cancer infecting nearly every installation world-wide. I was discovered, M was transplanted into another operation, I was declared dead.'  
“The torture was real. What I suffered was real. The hand-over was real. Jun Lin was being held by MI6 as a CIC without a valid conviction. M orchestrated his release and Lin was instrumental in ensuring my rescue.”

Silva taps the plastic plate through his cheek, “There was this little matter, there was the constant pain. The surgeries. You were young and gorgeous, busy hopping from continent to continent, sometimes you were married, sometimes you were too deeply involved in work. M and I were incredibly busy. Triple-S was expanding faster than we had anticipated, and then after awhile, I gave up.” 

Bond irritably sighs, “You should have tried harder.”

Silva's breath catches for the briefest moment as Bond grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers.

The agent's expression is stern but his eyes are soft. 

6\. 

Raoul Silva and James Bond do not stay up all night painting their nails and giggling about boys (or girls for that matter, equal-opportunists that they are). What they do, is crash in Silva's immense, luxurious bed having only succeeded in baring their upper halves and pass out until supper. 

Naturally, since Bond has already had 14 hours of sleep and the Klonopin has nearly worn out of his system, he stirs awake before Silva.

He blinks in momentary confusion, the startlingly blonde hair obscuring his vision, and carefully peals himself off of his gently snoring companion's hot, slightly sticky back. 

Quietly, Bond tiptoes around the bed and picks up his shirt. He scowls at the red streaks of fake blood and tosses it near the hamper before swiping Silva's shirt laying nicely draped over the back of an ottoman. 

It smells exactly like the blonde and the fit is not terrible. Bond smooths a hand down the creases, admiring himself in his new shirt for only a fleeting innocent moment of obliviousness before his heart drops to the bottom of his stomach. Silva is shaking with silent laughter in the mirror's reflection and Bond whips around, his ears flushing a hot scarlet he deeply resents.

Silva keeps laughing even after being smacked in the head with a pillow missile. He lunges forward seizing the indignant agent by his belt loops and drags him close enough to find firm purchase on his hips.

20 years melt away and Bond kisses him as if there hasn't been a day that's separated them.

There are a few minor adjustments that need to be worked out, but for now, a heated kiss or two is like coming home after years at sea for both men and they have plenty of time to expand upon that. 

Epilogue:

Early Christmas morning on 44 N. Daffodil Lane, Misses Michaels dabs up a tear with her handkerchief as she opens a little package which had mysteriously appeared on her kitchen table just that morning. It contains row after row of cherry cordials.


End file.
